


White Collar Drabbles

by dreamsofspike



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:56:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 7,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9895454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike
Summary: A collection of my drabbles for White Collar, mostly Peter/Neal/El, or Peter/Neal, with occasional other pairings.Warnings: non-con, violence, abuse of power, prison, slavery, character death, dom/sub, dark themes





	1. First Kill

It was completely accidental.  
  
No, not the shove that killed his cellmate. _That_ was very much deliberate. It was pretty much a reflex, instinctive reaction to having his clothes nearly ripped from his body, his smaller, slighter frame slammed up against a wall, his last shred of dignity threatened with ruthless, violent destruction.  
  
He was pretty sure _anyone_ would have tried to shove the guy away.  
  
The fact that the floor was damp in just the spot his cellmate's foot hit when he stumbled backward - the fact that the guy was just the right height for his subsequent backward fall to slam his head into the bars of their cell - the fact that he'd had a previous injury in a brawl a few weeks earlier that had left him with a barely healing skull fracture...  
  
... all of that was pure, dumb luck.  
  
Neal just wasn't sure if it was the good kind or not.  
  
He stood there staring helplessly as the blood slowly pooled beneath the other man's head, too stunned even to right his own clothing as a chorus of voices yelling frantically around him swiftly drew the attention of the guards.  
  
Two of them entered the cell, roughly grasping his arms, and he tried his best to submit, his heart sinking with sudden, awful clarity.  
  
 _Three more years? Try something like twenty, now..._  
  
"I-I didn't..." His mouth was dry, his words uncharacteristically trembling. "It was... it was an accident..."  
  
"Wait." A third guard appeared in the doorway. "I saw the whole thing from across the hall. It's true. Caffrey was just defending himself. I'll file a report later, just get this guy to the infirmary for now."  
  
Neal already knew that it was too late.  
  
As the two other guards walked away, he glared at the third, the one who had watched from a distance as he'd nearly been violated, and forced to take a life in order to save his own.  
  
"That's the thing about a life sentence," the guard sneered with a careless shrug. "Never know how long it'll actually be." He smirked as he turned to walk away. "Guess we'd better see about getting you a new roommate, before you get lonely."


	2. Moth to the Flame

Neal is used to wanting things he shouldn't have.  
  
It's no big change for him to silently plan and scheme and fantasize ways of getting something that he wants, something that, should he actually _get_ it, might very well prove his undoing. He's been hunted down and beaten up and nearly killed many times, because of something he wanted that someone else thought he shouldn't have - or wanted for themselves.  
  
But _this_ \- this is different.  
  
This is the most dangerous prize of all.  
  
He watches from the shadows as they whisper together, kissing softly in the candlelight, laughing quietly over some private joke. They think he's asleep - think he's shut away in the guest bedroom, resting up for the early job he and Peter have the next morning.  
  
But he's drawn to them, drawn to the affection and the warmth in their soft words, drawn to the easy intimacy in the touches they share - drawn to something breathtakingly beautiful that he can't steal, can't replicate - can't _have_.  
  
But he _aches_ for it, and finds that more and more with every passing day, he can't make himself stay away - even if he knows that eventually, he's going to end up burned.


	3. Secrets Too Close to the Skin

This is the only time that the walls come down.  
  
At least - some of them.  
  
Sometimes, Peter wishes Neal would open his eyes when they're together like this - would let him see beneath the surface, let him see what lies beyond his ever-present mask - but even now, there's a certain intimacy, a certain vulnerability that Neal can't quite bring himself to allow.  
  
But there are moments - rare and awful and not easily forgotten in the light of morning - when a rough grasp of his wrist pinning it down against the mattress, fingers tangled too tight in his hair, the sudden realization that he couldn't overpower Peter if he needed to - _something_ causes a shuddering breath, a tense tremor of fear, and an old, awful fear in those sharp, crystal blue eyes - and Peter knows that he's remembering things he'd never confess to having experienced.  
  
It never lasts more than an instant, and it's always replaced with a brilliant smile and an easy laugh, and Neal's demand for them to keep going, don't stop, give him what he needs; but Peter isn't sure in those moments what that is anymore - and he has to pretend not to know the secrets that Neal's keeping, just a little too close to the surface these days.  
  
Sometimes, Peter wishes Neal was just a little bit better at keeping his mask in place.


	4. Cold Sweat

He's focused, rifling quietly through the files in front of him, stacked on top of the file drawer he just easily unlocked without the benefit of a key, not thinking about his surroundings. The office is closed for the night, dark and empty, and he's not worried. All he's thinking about is how glad Peter will be when these documents show up in his mail the following morning, from an "anonymous source".  
  
They're watermarked and notorized and clearly legit - and while Peter might glare and threaten and interrogate him about it, he won't be able to _prove_ that Neal's the one who sent them - and he'll secretly be thrilled with this break in the case that's had them stumped for the past few weeks.  
  
Neal smiles a little to himself, his thoughts focused on the satisfaction he'll feel when this is over - and he doesn't notice until it's too late that he is no longer alone.  
  
A harsh blow against the side of his head makes him fall sideways off his knees, and he scrambles to regain his balance, peering into the shadows to see the figure that slipped up behind him. Rough hands shove him up against the wall, and he starts to push back. He's not a fighter, but he _can_ fight, when he has to.  
  
Then suddenly, cold steel against his temple, the click of a pistol's hammer loud in the silence, and a strong, firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him down on his knees with his back to the wall - and Neal freezes, his heart clenching, his throat closing, and a cold sweat instantly forming on the back of his neck.  
  
"Wait," he gasps out, holding up a supplicating hand that's trembling a little more than he'd like. "Y-you don't have to..."  
  
"Shhh," a soft, male voice soothes him, pressing a little harder with the gun, and his stomach rolls dangerously as he closes his eyes, swallowing hard. "Not a sound, Mr. Caffrey. Believe me, I'll want you to talk soon enough - but I'll let you know when."  
  
Abruptly, the office door crashes in, and the light in the room is suddenly bright. To Neal's relief, his captor is as blinded by it as he is, and is quickly subdued. He's shaking when Peter crouches down beside him, hurriedly checking him over for injuries. Still, he doesn't think his fear is that obvious - not until Peter puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, his voice low and gruff, but the most soothing sound Neal's ever heard.  
  
"You're okay, kid. You're okay. Come 'ere."  
  
And then Peter's arm is around him, and his face is buried against Peter's neck, and he's shaking violently, holding on for the reassurance that Peter's real, and _there_ , and he's safe - and for once Neal doesn't care at all who's around to see as he quietly falls apart.  
  



	5. 42 Seconds

It's come down to this.  
  
Nearly four years, dozens of life-threatening scenarios and tests of trust and rare moments of openness and vulnerability - and still Peter hasn't said what he wants to say, what he _needs_ Neal to know before it's too late.  
  
And he has 42 seconds left. 42 seconds before the work day ends, and Neal is officially free to live his own life, outside of the confines of the white collar office - outside of the anklet that's controlled his movements for the past 4 years - outside of Peter's _life_ , if he so chooses.  
  
Peter doesn't want him to choose that.  
  
But he still hasn't told him.  
  
His team give him pointed looks, and each other worried ones, but Peter ignores them, his heart racing, his stomach in knots, as he tries to think of what he should do.  
  
He's running out of time more swiftly than he can think.  
  
Neal's dazzling smile doesn't help as he props his foot up on the chair beside Peter's, holding out a pair of wire cutters in his hand expectantly. Peter forces a smile as he meets his eyes, taking them and rising to his feet before leaning down to clip the anklet off of Neal's leg.  
  
"Free and clear," Neal announces, letting out a shaky breath of relief, almost as if he wasn't sure this day would actually come.  
  
"Free and clear," Peter echoes, clearing his throat as he stands up straight again. "Free to live your own life - make your own choices."  
  
Neal raises an eyebrow, eying Peter warily. "Yes," he agrees. "That's what I just said..."  
  
Peter swallows back his nerves and steps forward before he can think himself out of this - takes Neal's arm in a firm grasp and pulls him closer, off balance a little, relishing the faint flicker of alarm that passes through the younger man's eyes, the way he gazes up at Peter with a soft, uncertain question on his face that makes him look so young, so unusually vulnerable.  
  
"Free to - to say no, if you want."  
  
"To - to what?" Neal's voice is a little breathless, a little - hopeful.  
  
And it's just enough to strengthen Peter's courage, and he pulls Neal in a little closer, closing the rest of the distance himself to press a firm, decisive kiss against Neal's warm lips, parted in surprise - and then responding under Peter's, returning the kiss as Neal's hand slides up Peter's back, drawing him closer, encouraging.  
  
As they draw apart amidst the cheers and laughter of their friends and colleagues, Neal leans his forehead against Peter's with a heady, almost delirious little laugh, his muttered words drawing another peal of laughter from their audience.  
  
"Well, it's _about time_!"


	6. Rage

Neal's never been truly _scared_ of Peter before.  
  
He's seen him royally pissed off, and had him threaten to send him back to prison, heard him say harsh words that he knew he didn't really mean - but he always knew, deep down, that Peter would never _really_ do anything to hurt him.  
  
Not until Neal really gave him a reason to.  
  
"You son of a bitch!" Peter snarls, crossing the room in two strides, grasping Neal by the collar and slamming him hard against the front door, hard enough to take his breath. "He has my _wife_!"  
  
"I-I know," Neal stammers, holding up his hands in a defensive gesture. He tries to meet Peter's eyes, but he can't quite make it. He knows that he deserves this. "I-I'll find him. We'll get her back, Peter, I swear..."  
  
The breathtaking blow from Peter's fist falls across his face, driving the words from his lips, and dark spots of color dance before his eyes as Peter releases him, allowing him to fall to the floor, against the door.  
  
" _You'll_ do _nothing_ ," Peter spits out with contempt in his voice that stings worse than the blow, "but stay out of my way while I save Elizabeth's life. And if Keller lays a single _hand_ on her, Neal, so help me..."  
  
Peter is silent, and Neal chances a look up, to see him struggling visibly with his own rage, his fists clenched at his sides. He abruptly loses the battle, closing the distance between them and grasping the front of Neal's shirt, his fist slightly choking him as he leans in close, eyes hard and ruthless as Neal's ever seen them. His voice is a low growl deep in his throat, and Neal knows that he means his words with every ounce of will he possesses.  
  
"... if she's hurt... you won't _make it_ back to prison."  
  
Peter releases him roughly, and Neal winces in pain - but it's the ache of loss in his heart that brings tears to his eyes, makes him close them before anyone can see. He gets to his feet and quietly makes his way out into the night - on his way to do what he can to fix this, to repair what he's broken - if he still can.


	7. Just Don't Leave Me

"Peter?" Neal's voice holds a slight quaver as his wrists tug uselessly against the firm leather restraints that bind him to the bed. His head turns to the side as if trying to locate Peter in the room, his efforts thwarted by the black silk blindfold that covers his eyes. "Peter - where'd you go?"  
  
Peter remains silent, unable to suppress the smile of affectionate amusement that passes his lips. It's just that it's so rare to see and hear Neal anything but perfectly controlled, his mask of confident indifference always firmly in place. To see him like this - helpless, uncertain, even the slightest bit nervous - it's strangely intoxicating.  
  
"Peter? _Peter_!"  
  
Peter takes his time across the room, careful to keep silent as he examines their stock of toys and tools in the drawer where they keep them, trying to decide what to do next.  
  
"Peter, _please_..."  
  
There's an edge of genuine fear to Neal's voice now, and Peter turns abruptly, frowning with concern. He doesn't like the way Neal's futile efforts to free himself have become frantic, clumsy with panic. Peter crosses the room quickly to sit down on the edge of the bed at Neal's side - further alarmed when Neal flinches away from the contact with a sharp gasp of alarm.  
  
"Hey - hey, easy," Peter soothes him, his voice low and gentle. "Come on, Neal, it's just me."  
  
" _Peter_..."  
  
Neal's voice is a hoarse whisper, and he still strains against his bonds, his hands grasping at nothing - reaching for Peter, he realizes. Peter swiftly reaches up to unbuckle the cuffs around Neal's wrists. Neal jerks away, but then stops struggling when Peter runs a soothing hand down his arm.  
  
"Easy," he repeats softly. "You're okay. It's just me, Neal..."  
  
Neal is still trembling violently as his freed arms fall to the bed, and he blinks into the dim light of the room, disoriented, when Peter carefully removes the blindfold. When Neal's eyes come into focus on Peter, he nearly collapses, his head falling to rest against Peter's chest, his shaking hands clutching Peter's arm, his waist, and holding on for dear life.  
  
"Peter," he whispers. "I thought you'd... I wasn't sure you were... were still _here_..."  
  
"What?" Peter is horrified by the thought. "Neal - hey, come on, babe. Look at me."  
  
But Neal won't.  
  
He's already fallen apart in front of Peter, and Peter doesn't think any coaxing or threats could get Neal to look him in the eye right now - so he doesn't try to force it. He just wraps one strong arm around his shoulders, holding him close, his free hand running through Neal's disheveled hair in silent reassurance.  
  
"You're all right," he murmurs softly. "I'm right here, Neal. You're all right."  
  
He wonders briefly at what dark past experience might have brought about such a panicked reaction - but he quickly banishes those questions, as he's not sure he wants to know the answers.  
  
"Just - just don't leave me," Neal whispers against Peter's chest, the words barely over a breath.  
  
Peter hears them, and his breath catches in his throat. He swallows hard, regains his composure, and holds Neal tighter.  
  
"Never," he promises softly. "I'll _never_ leave you, Neal."


	8. Wasn't Always a Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-sentence fill.

He was once an innocent, believe it or not - trusting that he would be loved and taken care of by those whose role and responsibility it was to do so, loving freely and openly with the certainty that his love would be returned - but he's been abandoned and betrayed too many times, had too much of that open love thrown back into his face, and now he knows better - knows that nothing he needs, nothing in this life will ever be his unless first he _takes_ it.


	9. Dragons

He has so many questions.  
  
Neal's so guarded, so quick to hide any flash of real emotion behind a long-since perfected stunning smile and a false innocence that suggests Peter's just seeing things. Nothing's wrong. Nothing's _ever_ wrong in Neal Caffrey's world, not even when he's on the run, or facing down the barrel of a gun...  
  
... or in prison.  
  
Those days are the ones Peter most wonders about, though he's afraid to ask, afraid he'll see the mask slide effortlessly into place - and give him the answer he most fears to his silent questions.  
  
 _How did you survive there?  
  
Why don't you ever mention it?  
  
... What did they _do _to you?_  
  
But there are walls, so thin they're nearly transparent, and yet too powerful for Peter to break through - and Peter's not really sure he wants to.  
  
Because behind those glass walls, behind the brittle, beautiful smile and shining blue eyes, lie dark, deep caverns where deadly dragons sleep. And Peter's afraid that if he pushes, if he keeps prodding and pressing at the wall until he awakens them...  
  
... those dragons might just devour them both.


	10. Ungrateful

Neal's behavior lately has been entirely unacceptable.  
  
It's as if he doesn't appreciate _at all_ what Peter's done for him - how he took him out of prison and gave him a future, a purpose, something so much more than the four years of suffering and fear and sheer _boredom_ that would have been his torment during his remaining sentence.  
  
Peter highly doubts that "bored" is a word Neal would use to describe what he's feeling right now.  
  
Turns out "Peter Burke" is a name that's capable of calling in a few favors. _Big_ favors. The kind of favors that are apparently capable of taking Neal from defiant and deceptive to subdued, pleading, _desperate_ \- in the course of the few days he's spent back in prison.  
  
With a very carefully chosen pair of cellmates.  
  
Neal's blue eyes well with tears, and he reaches across the table toward Peter with a trembling hand before withdrawing it, remembering that it's cuffed down - and besides, he wouldn't be allowed to touch anyway.  
  
"I-I'm sorry, Peter," he whispers, eyes downcast with shame. "Please... please, isn't there - is there _anything_ you can...?"  
  
"I can try," Peter replies, his tone grave and dubious, though the papers authorizing Neal's release back into his custody are already signed and in his briefcase, ready to be filed. "I don't know, Neal. You need to start showing a little more respect. For me. For the Bureau. For the sweet deal you've had for the past three years. Things could be a hell of a lot worse for you than you've had them with me."  
  
"I-I know," Neal concedes, his voice small and soft. He winces as he nods, and Peter wonders what bruises are concealed by the fluorescent orange of the jumpsuit he wears. "I'm sorry, Peter. I - I'll do better. Just - please, _please_ \- d-don't leave me here."  
  
Peter rises with a grim half-smile, pretending to hesitate before he reaches out to run a gentle, reassuring hand through Neal's hair, suppressing a chuckle when Neal flinches away slightly before looking up at him with hopeful, pleading eyes, as if Peter's his only chance of salvation from the nightmare he's fallen into.  
  
And that's not at all far from the truth.  
  
"I'll see what I can do, kid," Peter concedes gently, with all the warmth and affection he can muster. "I'll see what I can do."


	11. What You Wish For

He's waited so long for this day to come - and it's not like he hasn't done enough to sabotage its arrival. Now, he wonders if all the schemes, all the times he came so close to crossing the line and throwing it all away - he wonders if it was indeed a form of self-sabotage.  
  
He wonders when he stopped wanting to run.  
  
Peter smiles, blinking a little too rapidly as he clips the wire that fastens the tracking anklet onto Neal's leg, his breath a little shaky as he speaks in a bright, congratulatory tone.  
  
"Congratulations, Neal. You've earned it."  
  
Neal isn't sure he really has - and he isn't sure he wants it.  
  
He can't imagine not coming into this office every morning, not spending his days with Peter, not doing what he's done every day for the last four years, which has become every bit as satisfying as any heist he ever pulled off.  
  
He's waited for this day for four years - and he's beginning to realize what he'll be waiting for from now on.  
  
He wonders if that day for which he'll now be waiting will ever actually come.


	12. Deja Vu

He’s seen this before – the preoccupation hidden under a guise of nonchalance, the wistful, longing look in sharp blue eyes as they follow the object of his desire – only this time, it’s not  _one_  mysterious, beautiful love interest that draws Neal, a moth to the flame.   
  
It’s two.   
  
Double trouble, in Mozzie’s eyes – especially because they’re perfectly happy, just the two of them.   
  
Neal’s the only one that stands to  _lose_  here, and that’s why Mozzie’s heartsick.   
  
He’s seen this before – and he only hopes it won’t end with his best friend’s heart shattered on the floor at his feet.


	13. The Other Shoe

Peter walks in, wordlessly stifling Neal’s half-uttered greeting with a deep, desperate kiss that leaves Neal gasping, head spinning.  
  
“Peter,” he whispers, looking up with searching eyes. “Peter, what…?”  
  
“I get it now.” Peter’s voice is low, hoarse, almost anguished. “Neal, I  _get_  it, and I’m so sorry…”  
  
Neal stares, bewildered, and Peter pulls away, eyes downcast. He’s visibly struggling for words – so Neal waits.  
  
He’s surprised when Peter brings up their recent case. A ring of corrupt NYPD officers made it easy for the FBI when they requested Neal’s services – the team suspected, correctly, not for aboveboard purposes. This was a chance to catch them in the act. The problem was, a couple of them had met Steve Tabernacle.   
  
However, none of them had ever met  _Peter_.  
  
Peter confidently became Neal, as once before – and was summarily threatened, mistreated, mistrusted, and endangered. They assumed he’d cooperate, because of his past. And just in case, they made it clear if he didn’t, they’d get him sent back to prison.  
  
“Peter,” Neal assures him softly as he finishes, “no one in the FBI has  _ever_ …”  
  
“But they  _could_ , Neal,” Peter interrupts, upset –  _guilty_. “Anytime they want, and I never got it before, what – what that’s  _like_ …”  
  
Neal won’t look up, but Peter sees the pain in his eyes. “It’s not – Peter, it’s  _fine_ …”  
  
Peter captures his lying mouth in a firm kiss filled with love and regret, whispering a tearful promise against Neal’s lips.  
  
“I’m  _sorry_ , Neal. I’m so, so sorry.”


	14. Expectations

There’s always been flirtation between them.   
  
Birthday cards, secret messages meant for only Peter – it’s not as if Neal hasn’t made his share of suggestive overtures. He’s the one that suggested this, isn’t he? He was half-expecting it – this invitation back to Peter’s house, the very first time Peter’s wife is away, since the beginning of their arrangement. He knew Peter wanted him, even during the chase; under different circumstances, he might want Peter  _back_  – but Neal has simply  _assumed_  this would be part of their arrangement.   
  
After all, it’ll be easier having one master to please than having twenty.  
  
He thinks Peter will probably even be gentle – or at least gentler than the others – the hardened, desperate men who don’t have soft, sweet wives to come home to every night.  
  
Maybe that’s  _why_  Peter wants him – to vent his frustrations, to take out on Neal’s body the dark fantasies he has too much love and respect to inflict on Elizabeth.   
  
Either way, this is Neal’s choice, and that makes it, if not okay, then…  _better_.  
  
Right?  
  
It’s too late for second thoughts. When Peter returns to the living room, an open bottle of beer in his hand, Neal is waiting – on his knees on the carpet, gazing up with expectant eyes.  
  
“I figure beer’s not your thing, but El’s got a bottle of…”  
  
Peter’s casual words drop off, and he freezes.  
  
Neal edges forward, hands braced against Peter’s thighs, eyes wide, lashes strategically lowered as he asks in a soft, hoarse voice with just the right note of uncertainty.  
  
“Is this how you want me? Or… would you rather…?”  
  
He looks up to meet Peter’s eyes – and suddenly shame coils in his stomach – because Peter looks  _horrified_.  
  
“ _Neal_ ,” Peter says, voice unbearably gentle, sorrow glistening in his eyes. “Neal…  _no. Never_. That’s not – you don’t have to. Not… ever again.”  
  
In that moment, Neal wonders if he really knows this man at all – and for the first time, he thinks that just maybe, he has a chance at a real life beyond the prison that still surrounds his mind.


	15. Inevitable

A part of him has always known it’d someday fall apart.

 

Peter’s teasing threats – Mozzie’s verging-on-disastrous schemes – omens, for the fact that his false freedom would someday disappear.

 

He just never imagined it would happen like this.

 

With Peter lying on the concrete, his life’s blood pouring from the gaping wound in his chest, eyes already dull and dark – Neal doesn’t think. He picks up the gun that fell from Peter’s hand and takes aim, firing off three shots before he can think.

 

And then, a single thought fills his mind, oppressive, overwhelming in its truth.

 

_It’s all over now…_


	16. This Is How the World Ends

No one sees the end coming – until it’s there.  
  
The virus has an unheard of 95% communicability rate, and a 99% fatality rate – and as if that wasn’t terrifying enough, its incubation period is mere _minutes_.   
  
Half the world is gone within the first three days – including most of the white collar division, Mozzie… and Elizabeth.  
  
Thankfully, none of their lost loved ones are among those who  _come back_  – not as those they once were, but as shambling, ravenous, walking shells, capable only of mindless  _hunger_.  
  
Neal spends the following week keeping the two of them alive, while Peter barely manages to function, allowing himself to be led, hiding where Neal tells him, and staring, lost, into nothing, during the moments when they aren’t running, scavenging, fighting for their lives.   
  
On the eighth day after the world falls apart… so does Peter, breaking at last, anguished sobs of grief for his friends, coworkers, and most of all his wife, torn from him as he collapses, supported by Neal’s arms, catching him before he can hit the ground. After that, he seems to return – though he rarely smiles, and doesn’t joke with Neal the way he used to.   
  
That’s okay; there isn’t much to joke about anymore.  
  
They last long enough to begin to think they’re going to make it – before it happens, so swiftly that it doesn’t seem real.   
  
Neither want to believe that it is.  
  
The woman comes around the corner of a house they thought they checked – but clearly not well enough. Her decaying, broken teeth barely connect with Neal’s shoulder before Peter puts her down with a swift bullet through her brain – but they’ve broken the skin; the thin trails of bright red on Neal’s arm are far more than the scratch they appear to be.  
  
They’re a death sentence.   
  
“Do it,” Neal says quietly, placing his gun in Peter’s hand. “Do it now.”  
  
Peter stares at the weapon, dumbly shaking his head. “I – I can’t…”  
  
“You  _have_  to, Peter,” Neal insists. “You’ve got two minutes, maybe three, before I’m – Peter, I can’t – don’t let me go out like that.” He moves closer, waiting until Peter meets his gaze with wide, horrified eyes. “Please, Peter. I  _want_  you to.  _Please_.”  
  
Peter just shakes his head, in shock – and Neal takes pity on him, taking the gun from his hand and aiming it at his own head.   
  
It’s all happening too fast, no time to process. The only thought that crosses Peter’s mind is random, and painfully irrelevant. “You – you  _hate_  guns…”  
  
“Yes,” Neal says softly, with a sad smile, as he meets Peter’s eyes and adds in a hoarse whisper, words he’s never spoken before. “But I  _love you_.”  
  
The blast of the gunshot rocks Peter to his knees; he takes the discarded weapon in his trembling hands, staring down at it to keep from looking at Neal. With that single shot, it feels as if Peter’s entire world has ceased.  
  
With the next shot… it does.


	17. To the Limit

There’s no light – no sound, even – nothing but darkness surrounding him – and the uneasy feeling in the pit of Neal’s stomach swells; his breath catches in his throat as he tries to keep it steady and calm, to control the physical markers of his stress. Wouldn’t do to let them show. Wouldn’t do if Peter noticed…  
  
“You all right?”   
  
Peter’s voice is low and hushed in his ear, warm with concern – but Neal jumps slightly anyway, almost losing his balance, his bound wrists jerking down against the leather that holds them over his head. He swallows hard, wanting his voice steady.   
  
“Just fine.” It cracks anyway, and Neal is grateful for the cloth over his eyes, that blinds Peter almost as much as it blinds him. He draws in a slow breath before adding teasing words that sound false to his own ears, “Are  _you_  all right, Peter? You seem a little…  _new_  at this.”  
  
“And you’re the voice of experience, here?” Peter retorts, but his voice is still soft, still innately soothing, enough to make Neal feel safe, protected, even in this moment when he should probably feel most vulnerable – and he  _does_  feel vulnerable. “Please.” Neal can almost see Peter counting off on his fingers as he continues. “I don’t see  _you_  engaging in this type of thing all that often, either; we’re  _doing_  this because you wanted to…”   
  
The sharp tug on Neal’s hair abruptly draws his head back, baring his throat to Peter’s whim, makes his breath quicken. When Peter’s warm, strong hand touches the bare skin of his chest, Neal can feel his own heart racing, thudding against his ribcage like a tiny, panicked bird in a cage.   
  
“… and I don’t believe you have permission to run that smart mouth of yours at the moment… do you, boy?”  
  
Neal swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry again; he doesn’t even bother to try to keep the tremor from his voice. “N-no, Peter…”  
  
Peter’s hand gentles – long, skilled fingers that Neal loves run soothingly through his hair and draw him in close, off balance with his hands useless to him, and a moment later Neal’s mouth is captured in a kiss that steals his breath – possessive and powerful but slow, and so, so gentle. Peter’s hand leaves Neal’s hair, trailing slowly down his back to finally rest at his hip, his callused thumb rubbing slow, teasing circles by the time he finally draws back.   
  
“If that was supposed to be punishment,” Neal gasps out at last, a smirk on his lips, “then you  _really_  suck at this, Peter.”  
  
The sharp slap that comes down on his ass startles Neal, and he lets out a little yelp before he can stop it. Peter’s hand is firm, unyielding, but not painful as it grasps Neal’s jaw, refusing to allow him to retreat, even as he feels the heat of Peter’s skin close to his, feels Peter’s warm breath on his neck.   
  
“If it’s punishment you want, Neal…” Peter’s voice is still soft, but warning now in a way that sends a delicious prickle of mingled fear and anticipation seeping down Neal’s spine. “… that can always be arranged.”  
  
In that moment, Neal isn’t sure which he wants more – to submit to the subtle, undeniable power Peter has always wielded over him, or to push the limits just to see how far they’ll go, how much they both can take.   
  
But then, that’s nothing new; it's what he  _always_  does.   
  
Neal draws in a shaky breath, jerks his face away in defiance, and opens his mouth to speak again.


	18. In the Details

Peter thought he’d considered everything.   
  
He checked the cuffs at Neal’s wrists, made sure they weren’t tight enough to cut off the flow of blood to his hands. He checked the blindfold, ensuring that it was secure, but easy against Neal’s face, not biting into the sensitive skin below his eyes.   
  
Peter slid a finger beneath the leather collar strapped around Neal’s throat, indulging in a slight press against the tempting hollow there, and smiling a little when Neal swallowed hard, his lips falling open and his breath quickening a little as Peter withdrew his hand.   
  
Satisfied that all was safe, Peter moved to the end of the bed, pulling off his belt in one sudden, swift motion, noting the slight flinch from Neal at the sharp sound. Careful… always so careful… he moved to Neal’s side, touching his cheek and frowning a little when Neal flinched again at the contact.  
  
“You all right?” he asked, his voice low and intimate.   
  
Neal nodded, a shaky breath leaving his mouth. He bit down on his lower lip to stop the next one escaping.   
  
“You remember your safe word, right?”  
  
Neal nodded again, his bound hands flexing into fists and then opening again. Peter could see the fear in the taut line of his mouth, the tension in his torso, the way he was trembling, so fine a motion that Peter couldn’t see it, could only feel it when he laid a hand against Neal’s bare stomach.   
  
“Say it for me,” Peter instructed softly – a test.   
  
Neal bit his lip harder, turning his face away.   
  
He wasn't all right, Peter knew at once. He'd forgotten to account for one thing.   
  
The vivid sharpness of Neal's own mind and memories.   
  
Peter immediately reached for the blindfold, untying it and tossing it aside before setting to work on Neal’s wrists.   
  
It was close… _too_ close, this time. He’d almost lost Neal to the darkness of his memories.   
  
Memories he’d shared only once, after a close call on a case, when he’d been briefly held hostage at the point of their target’s blade. That night, Neal had drunk glass after glass of wine until the memories came pouring out of him, stories Peter would rather not have heard, but didn’t stop Neal from venting.   
  
Stories of a dark cell… bored, unconcerned guards… a bunkmate with a good six inches and fifty pounds on Neal, and a sadistic streak.   
  
“Keep quiet, he always said,” Neal had whispered against Peter’s chest, as if afraid the man could hear him even then. “Don’t make a sound… and I didn’t… maybe if I’d… if I would have just…”  
  
Peter had insisted that it wasn’t his fault. He’d held him and stroked his hair and murmured soothing words until Neal had fallen into the heavy sleep afforded him by that much alcohol… and then Peter had gotten up and gone into the bathroom and puked his guts out.   
  
At least he knew, though. When Neal got too quiet. When he didn’t dare to make a sound.   
  
When he was hearing those whispered threats in his mind again, seeing someone else standing over him instead of Peter.  
  
 _The blindfold was a bad idea…_  
  
Peter climbed onto the bed beside Neal, gently turning Neal’s face toward him and softly instructing him. “Open your eyes. It’s me, Neal. It’s Peter. Open your eyes for me, baby, okay?”   
  
Neal did, and the haze of confusion and fear there broke apart like clouds dissipating in the sun. He tucked his head against Peter’s chest and put his arms around him, his trembling intensifying. Peter held him close, relieved.   
  
It always got a little worse before it got better.   
  
“It’s all right,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into Neal’s hair. “I got you… you’re safe… I got you…”


	19. Where You Belong

He lives a quiet life for a few years – no heists, no complicated plans, just peaceful luxury, unassuming and private – sharing a few hours now and then, occasionally his bed – but never his past; and then one night – he’s simply _there_ … standing in the darkness of Neal’s apartment; Neal _feels_ him before he sees him, senses his presence, his power… feels the compelling need to go to him, cling to him, plead for forgiveness, for mercy.   
  
Peter smiles, cold and dangerous, as he steps into the dim light from the doorway, already reaching for his belt – and Neal is obeying the command before it even leaves Peter’s lips, sliding to his knees at Peter’s feet and lowering his eyes in submission, not sure whether he’s relieved or terrified, as the low rumble of Peter’s voice sends a shiver all through him.   
  
“That’s it, baby,” Peter says softly, fingers gentle, then tight in Neal’s hair, affectionate but fiercely possessive - and relief wins out, flooding through Neal as hot tears sting his eyes, because _this_ \- this is what he's been missing, that empty ache in his chest since the moment he ran - and now it's full again. “That’s it… you’re right where you belong.”


	20. Convincing

El’s smile is infectious, her excitement easy to match, as she swings the gleaming silver cuffs on her index finger.   
  
“Up for some fun?” she suggests, crossing the room. “Peter’s in the shower. He said give him fifteen minutes.” She wraps her arms around his neck, rising up on her toes to kiss him.   
  
Neal returns the kiss, and the cuffs in her hand fall lightly against his back; he can’t feel their chill through the fabric of his shirt – but he shivers anyway.   
  
El pulls back with a frown, studying him. “Everything okay?” she asks, warm and concerned.   
  
Neal dons his best teasing smile. “Just fine,” he assures her with a wink. “Even better once we get upstairs, _Officer_ Burke.”   
  
El’s head tilts slightly as she considers him with her deep, intelligent eyes, and for a moment Neal thinks he’s been found out. He isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or devastated when her features relax into acceptance.   
  
“Well, come on, then, Mr. Caffrey,” she orders lightly, tugging at his tie, turning toward the stairs. “You’re under arrest!”   
  
Neal’s heart sinks as he follows, wishing fervently for a moment that he could manage to be just a little _less_ convincing.


	21. Discipline

Peter

 

Peter wonders if there’s something wrong with him.   
  
He only agreed to this in the first place because Neal insisted it was something he needs.   
  
The first few blows are light, stinging – all the force that Peter can bring himself to inflict on Neal’s bare skin. But Neal lowers his head into his folded arms and grinds out, “ _Harder_.”   
  
Peter complies, first reluctantly… then with ease… then with a rush of unexpected pleasure and relief.   
  
When it’s over, they both are weeping.   
  
“Thank you,” Neal sobs out against Peter’s knees.   
  
And Peter is terrified, not because it’s wrong… but because it feels so damn _good_. He looks into Neal’s tearful blue eyes – wide, expressive in a way he’s never seen them before, and thinks that he’s never looked so beautiful.   
  
And that there must be something terribly wrong with him, and that he’ll never do this again.   
  
But he does.

 

 

Neal

 

Neal wonders if there’s something wrong with him.   
  
It takes all his courage to tell Peter what it is that he wants – and the look of concerned dismay in Peter’s eyes fills him with a deep shame.   
  
But then, amazingly, Peter agrees – and Neal sinks to his knees at Peter’s feet, turns and braces himself with his arms folded in front of him against the sofa, his back bare and exposed to Peter’s belt.   
  
The first stinging lashes are just enough to tease the need consuming him. Neal hides his face from Peter’s eyes and begs him hoarsely, “ _Harder_.”   
  
It takes Peter a few minutes, but soon he’s letting go, giving Neal what he craves, what he needs, what he knows he deserves – and the fire that licks at his back dulls the ever-present ache in his heart.   
  
“Thank you,” Neal whispers, looking up at Peter when it’s finished – and his heart sinks when he sees the tears on Peter’s face.   
  
Guilt closes in; no matter how sweet the release, no matter how he’s already thinking of all the other things he wants to feel Peter do to him – he can’t ask Peter to do this again.   
  
But he does.


	22. Black as Night

"Excuse me." The familiar voice is low and authoritative, sending a shiver of anticipation down Neal's spine, even as a strong hand closes, firm but oddly gentle around his wrist.  
  
The city street is crowded, twilight-dim as the sun sets and the street lights have yet to come on for the evening. Neal can hear the smile in Peter Burke's voice, feel the slight callused roughness of Peter's thumb against his pulse, as Peter continues quietly.  
  
"I'm going to have to ask you to come with me... Mr. Caffrey."  
  
Neal turns and gives Agent Burke his brightest, most charming smile. "Of course." He's quiet for a moment, giving the agent a slow, appraising look before confessing, "I've been expecting you."  
  
Agent Burke doesn't seem a bit fazed by that information. His smile doesn't slip, as he turns Neal around staying close behind him and shepherding him down the street, presumably toward the waiting black sedan a few hundred feet away.  
  
The crowd is thick, and it isn't long before they reach a place where it's easy for Neal to slip free of Burke's grasp and away into the darkness. He keeps his pace swift, weaving in and out of the faceless throng until he's certain he's left Peter far behind.  
  
The street is dark now, as he slows his pace and doubles back, making his way toward the room he's rented out for the week. His breath escapes him as a strong hand catches his arm and yanks him into the empty darkness of a deserted alleyway.  
  
Before he can speak or react, he's flung into the brick wall behind him, bracing for impact - but a large, warm hand cups the back of his head, strangely, affectionately protective. Neal blinks, his eyes adjusting until he can see Peter's face, a predatory smile on his lips.  
  
His eyes haven't fully adjusted yet, because he can't make out Peter's eyes - the shadows playing tricks with the light and making them seem inky black as Peter leans in close to Neal's face, crowding up against him and making Neal's heart race.  
  
"Gotta say, Agent Burke," he gasps out, more breathless and less in control than he'd like to be right now. "Don't think this is exactly proper FBI procedure, is it?"  
  
Peter's smile widens slightly, and he edges in closer. Neal flinches as Peter's fingers rise to brush against his throat.  
  
"You misunderstand me, Neal," he says softly, his breath oddly cool against Neal's skin. "You're not under arrest."  
  
Confusion gives way to shock, as Peter's mouth falls against Neal's neck - and then a sharp, piercing pain that makes the entire world seem to fade away, until all there is, is the hard strength of Peter's body against his, the soft prison of Peter's arms around him, and the inky swirling darkness of Peter's eyes as they swallow Neal down.


	23. Cold Gray Steel

Peter's heart races as he rounds the corner, gun drawn, ready to intervene in this operation that's gone swiftly, terribly wrong.  
  
But the thief has already got one arm locked around Neal's neck, the gun in his hand pressed to Neal's temple - and Peter freezes, fighting off the cold bubble of fear that rises in his chest at the sight - cold, gray steel, unforgiving and ruthless, much closer to Neal than he can get, in time to stop it.  
  
"Back off!"  
  
The quavering note of panic in the thief's voice is by no means reassuring, and Peter finds himself lowering his weapon a little, holding up his free hand. He keeps his voice low and steady, hopefully calming, as he addresses the nervous man holding the deadly weapon to Neal's head.  
  
"Come on, now," he says softly. "You don't want to do this. Why don't you let him go so we can talk about this?"  
  
Neal's eyes are closed, and Peter can see that his entire body is taut with fear. All he can think about is how much Neal's _always_ hated guns, and he desperately hopes he can get this one away from him before any further damage is done.  
  
He doesn't even realize he's edging closer to the pair, eager to get to them, to get between the man with the gun, and Neal - until the thief glares at him with wide, sharp eyes, pressing the gun harder to Neal's head and pulling the hammer back.  
  
"I said _back off_!" he snarls. "I swear, if you don't I'll kill him right..."  
  
The gunshot is deafening in the small, cavernous room, and Peter's heart stops for a moment - until he sees the trickle of red sliding down the gunman's temple, and then the gunman's body collapses to the floor behind Neal - shaken, doubled over and protecting his head, as unsure as Peter, in that moment, of who it was who'd actually been shot.  
  
Peter is beside Neal in an instant, frantic hands roving over him, inspecting him for injuries, and whispering over and over, "It's okay, it's over, you're safe... you're safe, Neal, it's over, I've got you..."


	24. Thief (One Sentence)

He was once an innocent, believe it or not - trusting that he would be loved and taken care of by those whose role and responsibility it was to do so, loving freely and openly with the certainty that his love would be returned - but he's been abandoned and betrayed too many times, had too much of that open love thrown back into his face, and now he knows better - knows that nothing he needs, nothing in this life will ever be his unless first he _takes_ it.


End file.
